White Knights aren't white (they're red)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: War might be for men, but women have always seen their share of blood.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Because a little anon birdie dropped the following in my inbox and I just couldn't resist: "I _need a caryl au where Carol is a literal queen and Daryl is their head guard like my dog needs bacon, does anything like this exist? please say yes."_ – To make it more period appropriate, I aged both them down to their late twenties – early thirties.

 **Warnings:** ***** Contains: medieval au: actual queenCarol! and swornshield!Daryl, no zombies, period appropriate language/sexism/classism/religious views, references to domestic abuse/violence, illusions to miscarriage/losing a baby due to physical domestic violence.

 **White Knights aren't white (they're red)**

 ** _Chapter One_**

"What are your orders, my Queen?" he asked quietly, sword-hand resting on the ornate pommel strapped to his waist as the Royal Council took their leave. Blue robes _wisk-wisking_ across polished marble as a cloud of formless whispers followed them out. It was the very sword that was his right alone to wield as the sworn-shield of the High Queen. And he had wielded it many times, indeed. And more he expected in the future.

The thought was soothing.

Affirming.

 _Righteous._

His fingers tightened around the scabbard when Commander Walsh paused in the frame, fixing them with an inscrutable look before inclining his head and stalking out – letting the door to the Throne Room slam shut with an ominous boom.

 _God's tits, that ugly sard was stepping on his last nerve!_

But the High Queen remained silent, poised and thoughtful until the heavy tread of the man's boots faded into obscurity down the flagstones. No doubt heading down to the training ground to work off his irritation at being summarily dismissed – and not for the first time - when he attempted to present yet another marriage alliance for her to consider.

"Let them go, Ser Dixon," she answered archly, smoothing the opulent folds of her gown with a careless hand. Expression unconcerned but worrisomely distant. "This is not the first time I have been forced to use my title to make my feelings known and it certainly won't be the last."

He nodded, glaring daggers at the beaten bronze that had been interwoven with the wood of the door many years ago when the kingdom had prospered and another King – a better King had ruled here. Back when famine and pestilence could find little hold in the land of the light and cunning and shrewdness were reserved for the battlefield and the prosperity of all rather than just the high born.

The meeting had been messier than usual, more cut-throat. With the council growing weary of their Queen's deflections when it came to the topic of securing the line with an heir and her own frustration at their insistency. Claiming that surely there were other topics that garnered the council's concern. The growing drought in the Northern provinces, perhaps. Or the lack of progress in shoring up the defences along their western border. Yet, they would not budge.

 _It was a political stalemate._

 _One side was going to have to give or-_

He nearly jumped out of his skin when she answered like she could read his thoughts.

"My Kingdom has suffered enough from the rule of an incompetent king, I do not wish another upon it. Certainly not so soon. If I do not remarry, I can protect it from this fate," she said slowly. Tone measured, like she'd spent long hours thinking about the course she must take. But was still undecided. Still unsure. "At least for a little while."

 _For a little while._

His tongue wet across chapped lips, feeling the dried out flakes pull taut and painful as he bared his teeth at the closed door. Feeling her frustration like it was his own. Like a living, breathing animal that flexed unwilling in the center of his chest - clawing to get out.

"If you do not marry, your councillors might have you wed off in the dark of night for want of an heir," he commented blandly. Grateful to whatever gods were listening that his voice remained level – strong. Reminding her why they were both here. Reminding her why there were dark circles punched deep below her eyes and why her councillors talked in whispers in the dark corners of the castle when they thought they were safe from preying ears.

"Yes, they made that perfectly clear today," she replied crisply, delicate fingers curling into fierce little fists across the hammered gold of the Dragon Bone Throne. The Great Worm slayed centuries ago by some long forgotten King of old. The same King whose blood ran strong through her veins. A birthright that led to the coronation of each and every successor to the throne since.

 _Dragon's fire, the small folks called it._

 _It was what gave their Queen not just her fiery red hair, but her inner strength as well._

"And what is it you believe, Ser?" she asked after a moment, tone hard, but with sparkling blue eyes that invited play. Like she wished for him to tell the truth, regardless of what that truth was. Like she valued his opinion – _needed it._ "Tell me, for I find myself in need of your guidance. My council talks as if the day of reckoning is almost upon us because I have rejected yet another suitor."

 _By Christ's blood, wasn't that a thought?_

That was another place she differed from the rest of the high folk.

A Queen didn't ask their guards about matters of succession and politics.

But to him, she always had.

Their arrangement was one that had always been more a meshing of equals than the opposite. And he would be a liar if part of him didn't think her cruel for it. He was still a man, after all. And she was still as untouchable as they day they'd first met. Burnished-red curls glinting a thousand different shades as he bowed low at her feet. Pledging his life and services as her sworn shield in front of her and her Kingly father after rising slowly up the ranks. From guardsman to captain before he'd taken a sword slash to the back protecting her father on the battlefield. The appointment to his daughter's sworn shield after he'd recovered had been an honor that'd seemed like anything but – at the time.

He'd always found it ironic that no matter how fiercely her father had loved her, he'd still forged the alliance that led to her marriage to King Edward. Knowing full well what sort of swine the man was. She'd never forgiven the old man for that, and frankly, neither had he. No alliance was worth that. No so called peace, either. Not after what that gods blasted cur had put her through.

Because, as it turned out, there was one thing he _couldn't_ protect her from. And that had been her husband. Oh, he _could_ have, of course. But not without getting hung for treason before noon the same day. Still, he could have. _Should have._ For her. It had only been her order, whispered hurriedly each and every day as they'd retired to their chambers for the night that had stayed his hand.

The night she'd screamed for him, finally freeing him to do what he'd dreamt of for years, had been the first day he'd breathed easy in over a decade. It was a testament to how deeply the outsider King had been loathed that no one questioned it when it was announced a few days later, that the King had taken ill with the plague and the Queen had ordered him secluded in their private chapel in order to pray for his recovery and stop the spread of the sickness. They had burned the body afterwards, charring it down to bone and ash as was custom with the victims of such infirmities. And thus, their sins were burned away with it. Reborn into a new life that was wholly hers, perhaps for the first time since she'd drawn breath.

It had been a heady thing to witness. A true Queen of the Inner Kingdom, under her own birthright, taking her place on the Dragon Bone Throne. The same woman he'd bent a knee and pledged his life to all those years ago, now blossomed and mature and just a little bit jaded. Throwing herself into trying to correct the ills her husband's reign had wrought upon her Kingdom with a ferocity that had frightened her handmaidens and concerned the majority of her more foolish councillors. It had taken time, but it'd meant everything just to see her laugh again.

"Seems to me the Kingdom doesn't need a good King than it does a good ruler," he allowed, speaking slowly, haltingly as he chewed on the words before letting them go. A slight lisp worming its way into the echoes as the shadows of the Throne Room tried to claim them for their own.

"That's all a Kingdom ever needs - other than rain. Man or woman? Don't much matter in my mind. All the rest is tradition and somemat'. Excuses made by the old beards and high folk for not changing a way of doing things that ain't always been for the benefit of everyone in the first place. Just the ones that hold the coin purses."

She cocked her head, interested. Hands folded prettily in her lap as she looked over at him, golden crown glinting in the low candle light.

"My councillors have many ideas of what the role of a Queen should entail," she remarked, voice like living coals as she fixed her eyes on the door like she could burn right through them.

"They care little for what I have done, little for I wish to do - what I _need_ to do for the prosperity and betterment of my people. And more for my lack of a husband and the fat clutch of children they believe I should be well on my way to providing. It is like nothing else matters. My accomplishments? My plans? If they had their way, I would be married off and with child by mid-summer. Commander Walsh believes the Kingdom needs a King to lead them in war and an heir to secure it. Beyond what I can give this Kingdom with my body, they simply aren't interested. Am I not their Queen?" she hissed, ringed-fingers like jeweled claws as they clutched around the yellowing ivory-bone.

"I have tried to lead by example, to move forward. But what is a woman beyond her body? What of her mind? Her strengths? Her desires, intellect – heart? Why is it that men have dominion over all things when it is women who bring life? Who cultivate and nurture. Should we not know more of life and death than any man? Who better to determine if the cost is worth the reward?"

He watched her through the dark of his fringe, hearing well the undercurrent of anger that branched out underneath her tone. Rippling like dragon's fire poised to roar across the endless grassy tundra of the west.

"So, you are going to let them?" he asked, sensing more than seeing her posture straighten. Gaining that same inner strength he knew so very well as her lips thinned and her expression fortified itself on her face. Suddenly looking every inch the Queen of the Inner Kingdoms.

"No," she affirmed, blue eyes flashing dark and determined as she held his stare. "I don't think I will."

The smile that spread across his lips in response was a predatory thing. Sharp and primal-pleased as a warm burst of pride and stuttered affection threatened to unravel him at the seams.

 _War might be for men, but women have always seen their share of blood._

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think, there will be one more chapter, stay tuned.

 **Reference:** the word "sard" is a medieval term that is similar to "fuck."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Because a little anon birdie dropped the following in my inbox and I just couldn't resist: "I _need a caryl au where Carol is a literal queen and Daryl is their head guard like my dog needs bacon, does anything like this exist? please say yes."_ – To make it more period appropriate I aged both them down to their late twenties – early thirties.

 **Warnings:** ***** Contains: medieval au: actual queenCarol! and swornshield!Daryl, no zombies, period appropriate language/sexism/classism/religious views, references to domestic abuse/violence, illusions to miscarriage/losing a baby due to physical domestic violence.

 **White Knights aren't white (they're red)**

 ** _Chapter Two_**

"Will you attend to me, tonight?" she asked, perhaps a fortnight later. Tone warm – just like her eyes – as her lashes fluttered becomingly. Looking back at him with clear intent as the noisy chaos of the Great Hall swallowed her words. Allowing the shadows to keep their secrets as she rose from her chair, golden circlet high, proud and heavy from its place on her brow. A visage that was made all the more stark – all the more beautiful - now that her hair was shorn close to her scalp in mourning.

He walked steadily beside her when she took her leave from the evening meal, comfortable and content as she hummed pleasantly. Having long since memorized the dainty clicks of her gait. All but breathing in time as he watched a small smile curl across her lips – secretive and coy in that way only women were capable of – knowing he'd been caught. It was a game they'd played often of late. Dangerous and addictive and dipped in the sort of intent he knew he had no right even considerin'. But it was one he could no sooner stop than cease breathing. Chest hitching like it was the first time she'd asked, rather than the five and tenth.

"I know the fate that falls on those that lay with lovers above their station, my Queen," he returned. Answering just as he always did, but this time allowing a lilt of his old roughness to filter back into his words. A not so subtle reminder of the differences that divided them. Of the half-starved, dirt-streaked child he'd been, an orphan from the neighbouring province sniffing for scraps around the castle gates. Or at least he was until the Wives of the Holy Fire had coaxed him out into the open and fed him up - took care of him. Taking him to the Singing Stone after he'd gotten it in his head to stick around. Entreating the Gods to show him his path as the First Wife drank the sacred offering and bowed low at the pedestal's feet. Oiled skin ethereal-pale and almost translucent as she writhed and slurred in the old tongue.

He was never told what secrets the Singing Stone had brought to life, nor the path the Gods wished him to walk. But what he did know was that the First Wife remained in that state for close to three days. Neither eating nor sleeping as words like thunder claps echoed from her painted lips. He remembered how the other Wives had treated him different after that, with respect and pride and a strange sense of urgency that soon led to Lord Horvath, Head Steward of the greater castle, filling his grudging head with books and learning. And later, when he'd reached his fifteenth name day, he remembered the rough voice of Ser Ford, the Man at Arms that led him from the Wives' white pillared halls to the castle barracks to be trained in the art of combat.

"Enough to dissuade you then?" she remarked lightly, teasing like she knew everything. Everything he kept back, unvoiced and hidden. Everything that would ruin them both if he had even one moment of weakness and took something from her that was not his to take. No matter how prettily she turned her words, no matter how much he desired her. There were some things that always remained the same.

She held up a hand before he could answer, gaze sobering as the lantern he carried threatened to gutter - snuffing itself on the drafts of old ghosts and forgotten Kings. Kings like Edward and his weak, wobbling chin who'd preferred his Queen docile and painted in bruises. Kings like Edward who'd squealed like a half-butchered sow when he'd turned his shoulder into the door of their chambers and splintered it. Taking his knife to the King's throat as she'd watched through the disheveled sweat-stringed curls of her hair. Eyes like the darkest flame as blood trickled between her lips. Not stopping until his blade ran red and he found himself gathering the sobbing woman up in his arms. Letting her bury herself safe inside his skin as the thing that had once been her husband breathed his last on the floor at their feet.

 _For him it had been a homecoming._

 _Something secret and pure and wrong that part of him had clung to like a favor in the middle of a battlefield._

 _But he'd never once thought that she might-_

"Ever since the month of mourning for the King passed, I have asked this question of you, my friend," she started, words like vice-grips to his heart as he froze in place – uncertain. Skin twitching, threatening to pull away entirely when she reached forward and gentled her hand across the span of his gauntlet. "And every night I have retired to my chambers alone."

Her smile was firm, but warm – understanding and inviting - as she looked up at him.

"That is to your credit, Ser. We have been through so much together over the years – shared much. But when I offered you a place in my bed I rather think you believed me jesting or perhaps even wanton," she laughed. "The barren Queen desperate for a child in her belly once more. For an heir to a Kingdom on the brink of civil war. _For hope_."

The air was dry, rattling through his lungs like crypt-bones shifting in their slots.

"My Queen, I would never assume to-"

Because he wouldn't. He knew his place. No matter what he felt - what _she_ felt - the world wasn't one of them grand stories his 'ma used to whisper into the dark after the coals had gone out. People like him didn't get that happy ending any more than people like her got to choose the gilded cage they ended up in. It was just the way things were. Wasn't up to them to change that or even question it. Especially not beyond the ornate, garish trappings that crowned the threshold of the Royal Chambers.

But again she hushed him.

"And you would be _right_ ," she affirmed, cheeks flushing red, lips parted like the promise of a kiss. Fierce, soft and strong all at once. _So strong._ Giving only enough to change willingly into something new - like the glow of virgin metal taking shape under a Forge-Master's hammer. The only woman he figured he'd be content to call his for life.

"For I am decided. What my Kingdom needs most is hope – security. Assurance that my reign has a future. And for that, I need to give my Kingdom an heir. Do not look so surprised, Ser. For it was you that encouraged me to trust myself," she pointed out, meekly oblivious to the way his world was dissolving messily around him. Some of it going so far as to make it to his face before he could stop himself.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he found his center again. Hating himself for the weakness he'd already displayed as he tried to remember what his life had been like without her. Without her smile and sharp wit. Without her quiet strength and careful kindness that so many took as weakness until she'd trapped them into showing their true face. Leaving them with nowhere in her Court to spread their vile poison but back to whatever rock they'd slunk from under.

"To do what must be done, in spite of the hardships? In spite of the difficulty such a course would mean? You reminded me that this is _my_ choice to make, not my councilors. And I thank you for it, _truly_."

He watched her through the quick of the sentence before he let his eyes drop. Nodding even though his stomach was churning. Heart curdling in his chest at the thought of her marrying again. Taking a man that wasn't him to her bed. Giving herself to him and having him put a child in her. He strangled a curse. Wanting to hit something – _someone_ – as his nails bit viciously into the skin of his palms. Needing to make it hurt as he tried and failed not to let it show.

"So you've decided then – truly?" he rasped, hoarse, low and wounded but reminding himself this was the best thing for her. That this was a good thing. A good opportunity. Because this time she had the luxury of choosing her husband carefully. This would be her choice. Not her late fathers. Not her councils. But hers and hers alone. Maybe this time it would work. Maybe it would be a good match. Maybe she would be happy. _Maybe._

"Shall I send word to Prince Phillip or Lord Axel to renew their-"

The shake of her head brought him up short. Feeling dull and stupid, like he'd spent the last two days buried in a wine sink, as he watched a small private little smile spread like sunrise across her face – lighting it up as it went. Transforming the darkened corridor into a million shards of silvering light as the lantern in his fist reflected off the ornate silver candelabra set at the entrance of her rooms.

"A woman's heart is a wild creature masquerading as a dove, _my lord_ ," she whispered. Making him shiver at the title – half a promise, half an endearment – as she closed the space between them. Letting him feel her warmth and softness as he fought the twinned impulse to both pull away and sink deeper. "Didn't you ever wonder why our bones form a cage around it to keep it safe?"

He swallowed, thick and rough and damningly silent as she tipped her chin to look at him.

"And I give it to you, if you will accept it."

He was aware of little else beyond the odd ringing in his ears and the sudden feverish heat that seemed to be rising from within when she pressed a key into his palm. Gifting him with a chaste kiss on the cheek before turning on her heel - skirts _swish-swishing_ across the flagstones – before gently closing the door behind her.

He breathed into the half-dark, scarcely daring to move as the edges of the key etched itself deep into the calloused-tough of his dirty palm. He opened his fist slowly, cautiously, uncertain of if his senses would prove him false until the low light revealed it to be true. For there it sat, iron-strong and finely carved, handle fashioned into the taper of a Dragon's claw. An unmistakable symbol of her great house.

 _It was the key to her chambers._

 _Her bed chambers._

 _God's rotting teeth!_

He stood there for a long time. Violently certain that at the end of his days his ghost would return to this very spot and stand vigil for all of eternity, but in the end he went to her. He didn't go to her that night. Or even the next. He went to her the night she forgot to ask.

The same night he loomed at the threshold of her chambers, heart beating in his throat as he called himself all kinds of a fool for the wild little clutch of white and yellow flowers crushed awkwardly in his palm. Not quite knowing what to say when she appeared around the curve of iron-plated oak and smiled with her eyes. Beckoning him inside as she reached up and traced the curve of his cheek, leaving him with nothing but the desire to turn into it and breathe her in as the door slipped closed behind him.

 _After all, how could he not?_

 _He'd always been hers._

 _Impossible as it was, the rest just made sense._

* * *

It was on the eve of their first child's birth that he received an urgent summons from low-town.

He rose to his feet as a deafening hush spread like ripples in an inlet pond through the crowd of courtiers and village representatives who'd gathered for royal judgement on matters of state, politics and finance. Holding court grudgingly for the sake of his Queenly wife as she labored to bring their child, _his_ _child_ , firmly in the world. But all parted like water twinning between streams when he ordered the guard to let her pass, allowing a girl - painfully young and draped completely in delicate gauzy-white – to slip between the stone pillars of the throne room and kneel quickly at his feet.

He only had to see the look in her eyes to know why she was here. Taking in her trembling lower lip and emotion building like unshed tears in the back of her startlingly mismatched eyes to know.

The First Wife was dying.

* * *

"My son," The First Wife wheezed, smile beatific despite her labored breaths as she looked up at him through age-blind eyes. Seeming to sense the moment he entered the threshold of her chambers as she extended a gnarled hand towards him. "My King."

He knelt beside her without thought or censure, heart heavy in his chest as he took her hand carefully in his own. The same one he'd flinched from that first day on the streets and later, the one she'd weaved through the air below the Singing Stone when the gods had touched her - speaking through her.

"She looked into the Singing Stone," the Second Wife murmured quietly from her other side, wild red hair centered by twin streaks of white spreading from either temple. Running a cloth dipped in sweet smelling oils down the First Wife's nude skin, already prepared for the rites of passage that would begin when she was returned to the flickering arms of the Holy Fire that dwelled in a deep chasm far below the Wives' white pillared halls. "I fear the strain was too much."

"Why," he rasped, failing to soften the frustrated roughness that existed behind it as he tried to imagine his life – especially now – without her quiet guidance. "It is not your time."

But she only smiled again. The same smile she'd used spending weeks coaxing him out into the open. Weeks of her feeding him up, quickly understanding his pride as she traded the bread and meat in her daily basket for trader's gossip and petty servant whisperings she likely already knew or had no real use for. Gaining his trust and respect slowly until one night, he followed her willingly back to these same halls. His home, for all intents and purposes.

"Because the Gods demanded it. You are a child of the Wives, my son. You know our ways," she chided gently.

He tucked his head, shaking it as if to loosen himself from the spidering clutches of a shared grief that was already lilting through the air like a final song. It was only after a moment of silence that he reached up and removed his crown. A dark rose-gold laurel of briar thorns and sturdy branches – meant to depict the Great Tree through which they are connected and all return to at their chosen time. It had been a gift – one of many – from his wife. Somehow understanding his continued misgivings at being King of all and providing him with a crown that kept true to who he was. He wore it now unashamedly, proud and honest and with perhaps even a deeper love for the woman he was blessed by the Gods to call his own.

"There is something coming on the wind, through the water," she started, careful and slow like every word was akin to a knife thrust. Voice thready and weak before the Second Wife brought a cup to her lips and bade her to drink. "A sickness. Different from all others. Many will die but their tears will harvest the soil and life will continue anew. It is promised by the Gods. But first you must weather this storm - for your Kingdom, for the ones you love. Fail and all will be lost. Fail and even the light of the Holy Fire will be diminished."

"What did you see?" he asked, shoulders hunched and tensing like hackles rising.

"I saw such things. Such terrible _glorious_ things," she whispered, tone edgy and unearthly, baser in its inflections in a way he remembered from the Inner Chamber the day the Singing Stone had spun the opening notes of his song. "And then, I saw them end, as all night terrors do when faced with the dawn."

He jerked up, startled, hand going automatically for the sword at his side when another presence in the room made itself known. Forcing himself to relax as the same girl that'd fetched him appeared ghost-soft behind him, bearing a simple wooden platter with an object draped in a rich swath of purple cloth.

It was only when the platter was set upon the pedestal beside them and the sash whisked away to reveal a large iron-tipped crossbow – a new invention that had only recently started trickling in from the eastern point of the Kingdom - that she spoke again.

"You will deliver us all."

He ran an admiring hand down the stock, taking in the handsome, but clearly serviceable inlay of iron-work and the finely carved oaken sheen from the base. Feeling his throat tighten as he gave into temptation and hefted it. _Perfect._ The weight. The way it molded itself into his hands. There was a sense of rightness in it too, something he'd only gotten close to the day he'd first picked up a bow in the training yard.

He was still trying to find the words when she smiled, joyous and wise as her spine arced amidst the soft furs. A sudden whirl of energy crackling through the room as the smell of burned sage and the undeniable freshness of coming Spring met his senses.

"A daughter," she croaked, reverent and rapturous as the girl and the Second Wife fell to their knees and kissed the inside of their palms. Repeating the word like a mantra as the fire in the hearth blazed impossibly brighter.

"Wise and fair. A Queen who will turn her tears into strength and look kindly upon all who entreat her. A child of everlasting Spring. The first of her name, but not the last – never the last. Bringer of the Holy Wisdom. She will have her mother's strength and her father's stubbornness. The blue-eyed heir. Daughter of the Dragon Slayers, daughter of the soil, daughter of the beloved son who walked these halls, whose soul sang for the Gods' judgement. Daughter of-"

It was only then, as the crossbow slipped out of his nerveless fingers and the women beside him sang joyfully - songs of welcome and renewal - that the First Wife passed peacefully into the hands of the Gods.

* * *

He was halfway to the castle when the bells tolled, joyous into the night.

His child had been born.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – I lied, this story got away from me, there will be one more chapter, stay tuned.

 **Reference:** The name "Sophia" means "wisdom" in Greek. This was the name of an early, probably mythical saint who died of grief after her three daughters were martyred. Likely birthed the phrase: "Holy Wisdom."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Because a little anon birdie dropped the following in my inbox and I just couldn't resist: "I _need a caryl au where Carol is a literal queen and Daryl is their head guard like my dog needs bacon, does anything like this exist? please say yes."_ – To make it more period appropriate I aged both them down to their late twenties – early thirties.

 **Warnings:** ***** Contains: medieval au: actual queenCarol! and swornshield!Daryl, no zombies, period appropriate language/sexism/classism/religious views, references to domestic abuse/violence, illusions to miscarriage/losing a baby due to physical domestic violence.

 **White Knights aren't white (they're red)**

 ** _Chapter Three_**

The old woman was half asleep, wrinkled wrists sunk deep into the next morning's bread - kneading fitfully when the sound of childish feet and excited shouting outside her hut startled her fully awake. She blinked owlishly through the crinkled slits of her watery eyes, a small smile pulling at the age-spots and papery skin that marked her victory in years.

A life well lived and long lived.

Quite the feat for a simple Tanner's daughter.

If she could be so bold to say so – which, of course, _she was_.

She only had enough to time to unstick herself from the bowl and wipe her hands on her apron before a chorus of voices and a single, bold little knock on the age-warped door had her tottering to her feet. She pulled open the door with some effort, frowning to herself as the muscles in her forearms quivered at the abuse. Pulling just enough for the three of them to tumble inside before she abandoned the latch and levered herself carefully back towards her chair by the fire.

As was customary, the children kept quiet until she'd settled herself. Not wanting to be the cause of yet another ill-timed fall when there was a break in her concentration. It was so much harder to get around these days. Even leaving her hut to peer outside took far more out of her than it used to.

Thank the Wives that her sons – grown and with families of their own now – always made sure she was well looked after. Such good boys. She'd been one of the lucky ones. To have her children come home when the final battle against the unclean had been won. Not many could boast of such a thing. Not many at all. _Such good boys._ So very like their father.

She blinked down at them with rheumy eyes, losing her train of thought as the three of them, barely more than street urchins she'd taken under her wing years ago, looked up at her expectantly.

 _What were they here for again?_

She puffed up a bit, affronted at her own question.

One too many things were slipping away from her these days.

She had half a mind to give the Gods a good talking too when it was finally her time.

Wasn't very god-like to rob an old woman of her thoughts, after all.

Still, since she was at heart, a prideful thing, she decided to simply sit and wait for the little ones to remind her. Thankfully, after a bit of prodding they delivered in spades.

"Why bless my soul, look at that state of you all," she clucked, smiling gummily as the three of them tumbled into place at her feet. Dirty, mud-streaked and wild. Little Beth was even barefoot, soot-tipped toes wriggling happily as she beamed up at her.

"Stories, Nan!" Carl trilled triumphantly, holding a bulging bag up by her right knee. Vainly trying to ignore Noah's larger one as the youngling pushed it towards the hearth and poked at the coals to rouse them. "You said so, once we'd collected the herbs you wanted!"

"Did I?" she hummed, old eyes twinkling with genuine amusement as Beth dropped her own satchel on the floorboards. Curling up by the hearth together like a litter of kittens as they looked up at her expectantly.

"You did!" they chorused. So innocent, eager and young all at once that it made her poor old heart want to burst.

"Aye, well then, I best be getting to it," she answered, looking down at her crooked hands as she adjusted her faded brown skirt. "Stories, hmmm….what about how the Forgotten King slew the Great Worm?"

The three of them shared a look. Coming to some sort of unanimous agreement faster than she could follow before Carl peered up at her – freckled nose scrunching. _Looked just like his father that one. Shame what happened. It seemed like there hadn't been a family around that the war with the unclean hadn't touched._ She shuddered, startling herself as an unearthly chill rattled through her aching bones. Quick to make the sign of the Holy Fire and kiss the inside of her palm in deference. _  
_  
"You've told that story before, Nan. _Lots_. Do you 've any other ones?"

 _Oh dear._

"Other?" she repeated.

"Like the Shield King!" Noah chirped, dark eyes dancing with excitement at the prospect as he drew an outline of a sword in the wood-dust beside the fire.

"-and the Widow Queen!" Beth broke in, brushing an unruly thatch of straw-blonde hair behind her, blue eyes quietly pleading.

"Yeah! Do you have any more about 'em?" Carl finished, so much like that final chord to a chorus that she had to school her expression away from the laugh that was building in the back of her throat.

Now _this_ she remembered.

The Shield King and the Widow Queen. They'd ruled side by side for close to forty years before the Gods came to claim him. Quite the unusual pair, what with him being a low-born and all. But they'd done the land and their people good while they'd sat in state in the Castle keep. King Daryl had ensured – through blood and toil – that their borders remained protected while Queen Caroline had seen to the politics. Elevating him in status from Sworn Shield, to lover, to King soon after the death of her first husband, King Edward. And when the sickness had come, well, everyone knew what the Shield King had sacrificed to keep their lands safe and the darkness at bay.

It had been unheard of, of course. She remembered being only a tiny thing playing at her mother's feet and still understanding the angry lilt in her father's voice when the announcement had been made. That Ser Dixon had been crowned King of the realm by the Queen herself. Disbanding her council to form a new one to match their reign, including representatives from all corners of the land. Uniting the Kingdom rather than dividing it. Forcing everyone to come together for the betterment of all rather than their individual provinces.

It had been rough times, but things _had_ settled – eventually.

And despite the naysayers they'd certainly all come out for the better in the end.

Because for all King Daryl's reluctance, he proved himself to be an honorable and fair ruler in his own right. Just the type of man – _the type of King_ – you'd expect from love match with the High Queen.

"Was his sword really made of Dragon steel?" Noah asked.

"Aye," she answered, wiping her mouth wetly as she took a measured sip from her cup. "With a shard of the Great Worm centered across the hilt. Forged on orders by the Queen herself as a wedding present. It was cut from the very bone that her throne was carved from. It's said that when she ordered it done she took to the seminary to pray. And that when she emerged the God's cast a powerful magic on it so that wherever the Shield King went the spirt of his Queen went with him."

"What was its name then?" Carl demanded, eyes shining with interest. "Dragon's Fang? Or was it Blood taker?"

"That was King Edward's sword, remember? Nan told us last time" Noah answered, gnawing on a haunch of dried meat that she handed him as a reward. Completely covering for the realization that she had no memory of telling them any such thing. "Dragon's Fang was King Mason's sword. The Widow Queen's father. Nan said it was buried with him. Right?"

"Name?" Beth piped up, brow furrowing in confusion when she nodded at Noah approvingly. "Why would a sword have a name?"

"All great swords have names, stupid," Carl retorted, scratching idly at his nose as he smeared a patch of dirt clear across the nub.

"Aye, and King Daryl was no exception," she cut in, smoothly taking the sting out of the child's words as she sent a wrinkled smile in the girl's direction. "It was called 'The Great 'Key.'

"The Great Key?" Noah echoed, head cocking. "Why?"

But for once, she just smiled. The small, coy, secret little smile that all women share when it comes to matters of menfolk and the heart. Keeping her thoughts close to her breast as images of her younger days passed like the flutter of a raven's wing through her mind's eye.

"That my darlings will have to be a story for another day," she hummed thoughtfully, devilishly pleased with herself as the children whined and protested. Thinking fond thoughts of the bedside vigil she had endured during the Widow Queen's final days. Easing her passage and listening to the memories of a good life long lived as the herbs she brought with her every day to the Castle Keep gave the Old Queen enough mind to recognize her grown children when her time came. She'd been there, close at hand as the Old Queen had told her stories. Speaking long into that last night about her lost love and the good they'd done together. How their son, Prince Emerson looked just like him sometimes. The same frown, the same dark eyes, the same quiet shrewdness and bold heart.

After all, a love such as theirs was one that should never be forgotten.

Nor would they ever be, if _she_ had anything to say about it.

 _Humph._

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.

 **Reference:**

*Emerson: German descent. Meaning: brave, powerful. Associated with people who are competent, practical, and often obtain great power and wealth. – Some people might recognize the name as it was the same I used in my caryl!baby fic: "Empires Fall (so that the children of the new might lisp a plan)."


End file.
